


Ineffable Games

by apocalypsenah, sevdrag (seventhe)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale talks to God, Card Games, Crowley Yells at God (Good Omens), Gen, God Calmly Talks Back, God Goes To Vegas, God Ships Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), God Yells Back (Good Omens), M/M, Metaphysics, Probably Blasphemy To Write As God, Religion, Where Else Can She Go, but not like you might think, card game metaphors, see if I care, the Antichrist offers God an apple
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:00:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29096184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocalypsenah/pseuds/apocalypsenah, https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhe/pseuds/sevdrag
Summary: When the Lord Herself wants to look into the human world, She rarely takes a direct peek from Her place in the cosmos. For starters, Her unfiltered gaze can scorch the planet if She isn’t careful, and there are enough things working against Earth these days; it doesn’t exactly need Her help being destructive. On top of that, when you exist in all eleven dimensions, you don’t always understand what you’re seeing when you’re only looking at a couple of those. No, God uses a conceit She’s quite proud of whenever She gets the urge to go visit Her human Earth.She unravels Herself from Her own high-stakes game of cosmological poker, and goes to play the earthly version.When God wants to drop in on humanity, She goes to Vegas.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 42
Collections: Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang





	1. The Dealer

**Author's Note:**

> This whole fic was inspired by the lovely art from apocalypsenah for the Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Big Bang!
> 
> I've wanted to write a God-based fic for a while now, and this art just inspired me so much for how I wanted to approach it. I hope you enjoy all of this! The costume and the butterflies just really hit me.

When the Lord Herself wants to look into the human world, She rarely takes a direct peek from Her place in the cosmos. For starters, Her unfiltered gaze can scorch the planet if She isn’t careful, and there are enough things working against Earth these days; it doesn’t exactly need Her help being destructive. On top of that, when you exist in all eleven dimensions, you don’t always understand what you’re seeing when you’re only looking at a couple of those. No, God uses a conceit She’s quite proud of whenever She gets the urge to go visit Her human Earth.

She unravels Herself from Her own high-stakes game of cosmological poker, and goes to play the earthly version. 

In the process, She folds Herself up, so that She only exists in dimensions Her human creations can understand; this helps Her focus Her all-encompassing being into a form that won’t burn away too much reality. Once She’s done so, She doesn’t just go anywhere. There’s one particular spot where the liminal edges of Her creation overlap with the base instincts of humanity in a way that allows Her to slip in unseen, one place where games of nearly infinite stakes (to humans, at least) can be played. Somewhere the best and worst of humanity mix in ways that are, in fact, incredibly human. 

When God wants to drop in on humanity, She goes to Vegas.

She finds Herself folding into existence right outside some stately towering construction, and takes one step forward just to hear that satisfying _tap_ sound Her shoes make against the marble floor. Things are springing into place around Her, the sights and sounds and scents of humanity becoming more real as She solidifies. Her steps echo through other galaxies as She grows more sure of Her movements on this plane, and She follows the ebb and flow of the crowd into a game room. Oh, but this world _sparkles_ so, once She’s contained in its dimensions! The delicate twinkling lights, the shimmers of fabric, the shine of metals: Her creatures have done marvelous things for themselves, haven’t they?

Glancing around, She finds the area where She can play out the hand She has come to deal. One gesture, and the table allows Her to slip into the dealer’s position, the human there handing over the deck of cards with no question. She can see how She appears in their minds, now. She’s a woman, older, white, wearing something long and glittering. Round Her head are a million butterflies, blooming; She cannot dim all of Her light, not even by folding herself up, but the humans here simply think it a costume, or a fanciful hat, and She is settled. She takes the deck and begins to shuffle. 

At first She deals the hands as they normally come, looking at the humans who have come to play Her game unwitting. Farthest to Her left is a couple, both male and young, drawn here by the temptations of the game and the women, although She can see in both of their hearts they are more drawn to each other than either would like to admit. Next to them is a young woman, although She looks into her heart and sees that they are a _they_ far more often than a _she_. Next to them are two elderly ladies, who come to play the cards every week, and their hearts are good. At the right end is the dealer, who couldn’t bring himself to leave the table, not when faced with Her light. God hands them all their cards, flips one of Hers over, and watches the game unfold.

The humans at the far left are playing poker, the old ladies are playing blackjack, and the dealer seems to be playing rummy. This is good. She continues to give them the cards as they come off of Her deck, watching their little brains spin and think and make decisions. Surrounded by so much free will — She sinks into it, like a warm bath of starlight, letting Herself relax and bringing everything into place. Butterflies flutter round Her face in jeweled tones. 

She is here to play three cards. She has them, up Her sleeve, ready to be deployed into this tiny subset of dimensions. The cards are Her way of influencing things on this plane; the game, Her way of reaching out and giving Her children the smallest and slightest of pushes. 

She collects the cards played, doles out chips as they’ve been earned. The humans chatter amongst themselves like birds, heads cocking and hearts beating, a million languages at work. The next hand She deals is almost definitely poker. She thinks. So many insignificant details to keep in one’s small human head! How do they manage?

She is nearly lost in wonder, but then She remembers Her purpose here, and flicks Her wrist so that one of the cards falls directly into Her palm. No one sees Her slip it into the deck. How could they? The poor things rarely perceive the full extent of their own dimensions, let alone Hers. One of the young men at the end tips her a chip, and She’s delighted by the gesture. If only he knew he’d tipped God! 

She waits until they’ve all had a chance to look at their hands, look around at each other, place what small bets they desire. Now, it’s time She started playing the hand She came here to play. All they need do is continue to play the game, keeping Her within the dimensions She needs, like an anchor on a boat. She can do the rest.

God grins at Her players. She tilts Her head to hear the rush of butterflies and wind all around Her, and plays the Antichrist card. None of them even question its place in a poker deck; such is Her power of suggestion. Instead, they reorder their hands, and the game begins.


	2. The Antichrist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> God plays Her first card, and the Antichrist nicks some apples.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story plans to update on the weekends until all 6 chapters are up!

Adam’s been very sneaky this time. He’s really tired of getting chewed out by his dad for nicking apples, but he isn’t going to _stop_ nicking the apples, now, is he? He just has to get better at keeping himself out of sight. For example, right now, when he knows Mr. R. P. Tyler is out walking Daisy, who is a stupid dog and nowhere near as clever or friendly or cool as Dog. This is as out of sight as Adam can get.

Even so, he figures he should practice, so he and Dog slip from tree to tree like they’re spies on a mission of international importance. Adam picks only the _best_ apples he can reach and starts gathering them up in his shirt. He wants The Them to be able to walk past Mr. R. P. Tyler later today, all of them eating apples, and Mr. R. P. Tyler won’t know whether they’re his own precious apples or just ones from the grocery. Adam thinks that’s pretty funny. And Mr. R. P. Tyler deserves it, because Mr. R. P. Tyler is a rude and nasty man who doesn’t think Adam’s funny at all.

Adam hears a noise and flattens himself up against the trunk, gesturing for Dog to go into a down-stay, and peeking around. He’s holding the hem of his shirt to keep the apples in it from falling out, although if he has to run, he’s probably going to have to abandon them all. “Bollocks,” he whispers, because he gave himself permission to swear after Last Summer, but he’s been too polite to take advantage of it much in front of other people. 

There’s somebody out here. Adam knows he checked the area _really well_ , and Dog did too, so he has no idea who it is or where they came from. He’s about ready to chuck the apples from his shirt and have a run for it when he sees someone step out from behind another tree. It isn’t someone he knows, and therefore isn’t someone who will yell at him for nicking apples, so Adam also emerges with a cheery wave.

“Hallo,” he says, and gestures to Dog to end the down-stay. Dog immediately bounces up, approaches the woman, sniffs the air, and then sits down as if he’s confused. Adam takes note. She’s a bit older than his dad, but not as old as his grandpop, probably. She has on sensible jeans and wellies, with a checkered shirt and a jacket over it. There are butterflies fluttering round her face, such that Adam can’t really see what she looks like; they sort of flit in and out, all bright yellows and oranges, like flowers. 

“Want an apple?” He pulls one of the best ones out of his shirt and offers it to her.

“Oh,” she says. Her accent’s unfamiliar - American, sort of - and her voice sounds like music and bells and running water and his mum cooking rashers on the stove and Adam squints a bit. “Isn’t that ironic.”

“Is it?” Adam shrugs, still holding out the apple. “Pepper says that most people who say something’s ironic don’t know what it really means.”

She laughs. _That_ sounds like heavy rain and the seaside and that opera his grammy listens to. “Do you?”

“Know what it means?” Adam frowns. “It’s like… being sarcastic, but like, with the opposite of something. Or something you’d least expect. Like…” He thinks. “Like a firehouse catching on fire.”

She laughs again. “Yes. Or like… Well.” Her smile is something private. “The Antichrist offering _Me_ my own apple.”

Huh. “How’d you know who I am?” _Was,_ Adam should say, but it isn’t entirely true. The thing is, when he renounced being the Antichrist, he became not the Antichrist, but he had to be the Antichrist to get there in the first place. Wensleydale says it’s something called a paradox. Pepper says Wensley is wrong, and Adam’s still _technically_ the Antichrist, he just saved the world instead. Brain says it doesn’t matter cause Adam can still do cool stuff like push them all on the swings at the same time, or fix Brian’s trousers when he tears the knees open so his mum won’t thump him, or make it so that Mr. R. P. Tyler trips on nothing while he’s chasing them. 

“Do you know who I am?” she asks, and Adam takes a moment to really look.

He still can’t see her face because of all the butterflies, so he slips a bit aside, into his power, and takes a look that way. She feels a little bit like Aziraphale, all warm and glowy; and she feels a _lot_ like Satan had, enormously powerful. She feels safe and dangerous at the same time: hot and cold, smooth and sharp, daylight and darkness together. Is that ironic? Or a paradox. Adam isn’t quite sure at this point.

“I think I do,” he says, because there’s only one being he can think of who would delight in the irony of being offered an apple by the Antichrist, other than Crowley — and this isn’t Crowley.

God laughs. This time it sounds like rushing wind and piano music and the satisfying sound a branch makes when you step on it and it breaks. “Hello, Adam,” She says. 

“What do I, uh, call you?” Adam’s fairly sure he should be nervous right now, but honestly? He’s really just curious. He doesn’t see any reason to be rude, but he also doesn’t see any reason to be overly polite, either. He’s always done best just being himself. 

“It doesn’t matter,” she says, and takes the apple. She takes an enormous bite of it, and closes her eyes as she chews. “I wonder,” she continues, once she swallows, “whether they taste the best stolen.”

“I think they do,” Adam confirms, and she makes a little gesture he finds familiar, and then they’re idly walking through Hogsback Wood, side by side. 

“I’m just here to do a little look-in,” God tells him, as if it’s meant to be a secret. “After everything that happened, I felt I would be a bit remiss if I didn’t…” Her smile is mysterious. “Well. If I didn’t check in and make sure everyone’s alright.”

“I’m alright, I think,” Adam tells her. And really, he is; Last Summer was a bit horrifying, but it isn’t Last Summer anymore, it’s over. His powers are pretty wicked, and the world didn’t explode, and everyone’s forgiven him for all those nasty things he said when he didn’t know what was happening. “I mean, pardon my asking, but don’t you know?”

She laughs. “I do know,” she tells him, “but sometimes I have to take a closer look to really understand.” 

It doesn’t really make much sense, but Adam accepts it. “Anyway, we’re loads better, here. Pepper’s studying with Anathema, and Brian got a dog, and Wensleydale got into advanced maths, and even my parents are alright.” It doesn’t occur to him until much later that God might not necessarily know - or understand - who these people are, but when someone asks if everything is alright, this is how he answers. That’s his everything.

There’s a bit of silence as they walk. Dog dashes ahead of them, and then comes back, dragging along a stick that’s nearly as big as he is. To Adam’s surprise, Dog offers Her the stick.

“Clever little hellhound,” she says, and tosses the stick off into the brambles.

“He’s the _best_ dog in the _world,_ ” Adam tells her. “He’s barely much of a hellhound anymore at all, really. He does tricks, d’you wanna see?”

“As much of a hellhound as you are an Antichrist,” God muses, and smiles at him. “I feel like I should offer… something. I can see things were very hard for you, and you went through a lot in very little time. Apology does nothing, now, but... I feel like you should know I acknowledge just how strong and brave and true you ended up.”

Adam shrugs. “I mean, yeah, that whole bit was terrifying, but it was what, a day? Maybe two days? I’m twelve years old, ma’am, and I’ve had _loads_ of days being human. So, really, it isn’t that big of a deal, all in all.”

She hums in thought, a noise like a gently rolling brook. “The tenacity and perseverance of the young,” she says, to no one. 

“I do have a, uh, question,” Adam ventures eventually. “Did I do an alright job resetting the world? I mean, I didn’t quite know what I was doing, but it seemed…” Easy seems the wrong word, but it’s all Adam can think to say, in that moment when the air had been thick with dust and potential and all of the voices around him rose to such a clamor that it was like standing in silence, in the eye of a hurricane. “I do hope I didn’t mess anything up.”

God stops. She looks down at him, and even though Adam still can’t see her entire face, he sees she has eyes that are grey like a cloudy day, like the kind you spend inside with a blanket and your favorite book and popcorn freshly popped. “You were marvelous,” she says eventually, and this time her voice just sounds like any human. “Absolutely marvelous, my child.”

Adam turns at the sound of rustling leaves, but it’s just Dog, bringing the stick back. When he turns back around, She’s gone. 

He considers checking for Her, or calling out, but he has a shirt full of ripe apples and The Them waiting for him, and it’s still a lovely enough day that they should be able to fit in at _least_ two games before it’s time for supper.

———

Back in Vegas, one of the delightful old ladies has somehow managed to play a flush off of the Antichrist card. No one at Her table really understands the play, but She decides it wins, and the old woman happily collects the chips. The two of them stand to leave, tipping Her with a chip of some magnitude. In return, She blesses them so that Maude’s knee will only ache when she wants to know whether it’s going to rain, and Beverly’s eyesight will only fail when she doesn’t want to have to drive their old auto. 

Their seats are quickly taken, because Her table is the most glamorous of them all, and they’ve gathered a small crowd. A father and son sit down across from Her and nod. The father enjoys the rhythm of the game and the high of winning; the son is here to spend time with his dad, who is passing from cancer, although neither of them knows that yet. She smiles at them, letting the brilliance of Her light disguise the movement as She flicks Her next important card from Her sleeve onto the top of the deck. This time She deals for blackjack, although Her hand is still for poker, because Her hand is the most important. 

The first human stays at eighteen; the second hits at fourteen, up to nineteen. Stay at sixteen. Hit at fifteen, and over. Stay at twenty. Hit at seventeen, surprising, and that lands at twenty as well. She turns over Her cards, revealing a thirteen, for which the dealer must hit.

She selects the next card, and plays The Demon down onto the table with a dramatic snap She knows he’d appreciate.


	3. The Demon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> God plays the Demon card. The Demon doesn't like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh. life. happened. there are still 3 chapters of this left to go! <3 of course Crowley had a lot to say. who is surprised. in other news, water is wet.

Crowley’s plants have gone to _shit_ since the Apocalypse didn’t happen. He’d hoped their small brush against utter disaster might have made an impression, really, along with fear of losing their benevolent owner to Heaven and Hell’s schemes, but no: his garden has the tenacity to _thrive,_ to the point of absolutely shameful misbehavior. 

He’s had to demonically extend the room where he keeps them all, because they’re just blooming all over the place and shooting out vines and branches as if they’d never been trimmed within an inch of their life, and Crowley will _not_ stand for improper crosspollination, no _thank_ you, he has cultivated these particular variations for a _reason._ And as such he’s had to space out all the roses from the orchids, and separate three different kinds of greenery that aren’t _supposed_ to breed but had been looking particularly, well, _shameless_ lately. Never mind that Crowley’s garden doesn’t contain a single fly, bee, wasp, or any kind of bug to actually _perform_ the pollination. They aren’t supposed to be outgrowing their pots at such a rate, either, and Crowley is _not_ taking chances.

He’s doing his rounds today, because Aziraphale had made noises about an incoming book shipment that had made Crowley feel like his angel was maybe asking for some space, and the _last_ thing Crowley wants to do in this new world of theirs is, well, uh. Anything that makes Aziraphale unhappy. So he’s prowling his rows, plant mister in one hand and an actual watering can in the other - oh, and that’s _another_ thing - and trying to misplace his own anxiety by delivering a scathing lecture to his verbenas.

“You tuck that right back in,” Crowley snarls. He’s misting one that’s grown an incredibly tall stem overnight, one that looks like it’s going to split another five or six times, each with clusters of tiny, bell-shaped blossoms that often come in different colors. If it grows at the same rates as the last one he’s going to have to repot it again and he’s starting to run out of _pots_ and he isn’t going to waste a miracle on these fucking ingrates, even if Aziraphale had complimented the coloring the week before.

He turns to mist the next one, and — there’s a butterfly.

Crowley stares for a good long minute. His flat is impervious to demons (except him), angels (except one), humans (except on invite), rats (except on invite), and all kinds of pests. He uses miracles when his plants need a little insect action, and otherwise, he doesn’t want to have to deal with it. The presence of any sort of creature inside his flat that isn’t _him_ is cause for alarm. 

“Angel?” Crowley calls, tentatively, because if Aziraphale’s here doing some kind of miraculous window-opening thing, he doesn’t want to rain on that parade. He starts to creep forwards, towards the wall.

There’s another butterfly on the next verbena, then three in his ficus, then eight in his bromeliad. They’re all dark, too, amethyst and sapphire and ruby, with bright glints here and there of gold and copper. At some point Crowley realizes he’s too far in to still be in his own flat, but he senses something at work here, and he doesn’t really like it. It’s his job to figure out what’s going on before anything bad happens.

There are trailers now, vines and tendrils he can easily identify but doesn’t remember growing. Has his garden just gone off its nut? Crowley brushes some of it aside and steps through something thick like mist and then he’s — in the Garden.

“Oh, good,” Crowley says out loud, dry, because he doesn’t have any clue what’s going on and he doesn’t _like_ this.

“Hello,” says a voice he desperately doesn’t want to recognize, and then She’s there before him. 

He doesn’t recognize Her, and yet She hasn’t changed at all. She’s all — lkadhfkl. Crowley puts his hands on his hips, angrily, because She came to see him in the human world, and he’s just going to wait until — okay. Her human guise is slender, female, beautiful but not utterly gorgeous, older than he’d expected. She’s wearing designer leggings and an oversized sleeveless sweater with a cowl neck; Her arms sparkle with jewels and Her boots might be more fashionable than his. He can’t make out Her face because of the butterflies, but when could He ever? They’re arranged into Her hair and down Her cheek in those jewel-tones, and he does notice that Her eyes are a gleaming sky-blue, like Aziraphale’s when he’s happy. That makes sense, Heaven and all. None of the rest of this does.

“Gosh, is it really You?” Crowley clutches at his heart dramatically and tries not to spit at Her feet. “Have I been _graced_ with Your presence, finally?”

“Please,” She says, folding Her hands before Her formally. “I’m not here to fight, R—”

“Crowley,” he growls, “and maybe I am.”

Her head inclines. “I am here to talk,” She says, “so you may speak.”

“I may. I may!” Crowley feels rage, red-dark and as hot as any star, lighting up his spine like fuel on a fire. “Oh, thank you, Your Worshipfulness, for the _permission_ to speak. _As if I needed Your bloody permission for anything anymore?_ No, I’m sorry, we left that behind, didn’t we? Along with the bloody _name_ and all the stupid bloody — and anyway what was that, then? You want to talk, let’s talk about that bit? You tipped me over the edge, Your Highnessness, You sent me _Falling_ into the Pit. Want to talk about that part, eh? Finally gonna tell me what that mess was all about?”

She is silent. Of course She bloody is. Isn’t like he’d gotten answers from Her the first time.

“Nope,” Crowley says, suddenly realizing. He isn’t going to play this game again. “You don’t feel like answering that one? Fiiiine. But I’m done, then. Whatever you’re here to do? I’m out.”

He turns on his heel, and then is surprised to hear Her voice. It sounds weary. All She says is, “Crowley.”

“That’sss my name,” he hisses, spinning around again. “I threw out the one You gave me. Didn’t want it. Then Hell gave me a new one. Didn’t want that, so they came up with Crawly. Thought that was funny. Didn’t want that, either. Crowley’sss _mine._ I’m more Anthony J. Crowley than I’ve _ever_ been yoursss.”

She stares at him, unblinking. Some feral part of him wants Her to ask what the J stands for. The rest of him wants Her to get to the fucking point. 

“I am — sorry,” She says. Her voice doesn’t sound like It knows how to be sorry. 

“Are You, though?” Crowley starts pacing. He knows the dimensions of the Garden by heart; he’d walked it, slithered through it, spent hours in it. “Do You know what You’re even sorry for? Do You know how much it _hurt?_ Do You even know how far I fell? How it felt to have Your love and grace torn out of my center?” He slides over in a blink, and grabs Her hand, places It on his chest. “Go on, rip my heart out. It hurts _lessss._ ”

She still does not blink. 

“Heaven,” Crowley continues, throwing Her hand away brusquely. “You’re the Queen of a merry band of _useless idiots,_ Your Holiestness. They’ve forgotten how to _be angels._ Love? Forgiveness? What’s that? _Fuck.”_ Aziraphale would have chided him for that. Crowley couldn’t care less. “A bunch of incompetent hypocritical arseholes that can’t tell true holiness from the bottom of their shoes. Do You know? Do You know what Your precious archangels tried to do?”

She tilts Her head. The butterflies flutter and rearrange so that all he can really see is one bright blue unblinking eye. 

“Aziraphale is the _best thing You ever made,_ ” Crowley shouts. “There’s an angel that understands! All he’s ever done is try to help and protect humanity! He _loves_ it here, _loves_ Your creations! And those assholesss wanted to _burn him.”_ His voice cracks and he doesn’t even care; he’s angry enough to burn this entire Garden down. “Oh, and _that’s another thing._ Me? Original temptation? Falling in _fucking love_ with an _angel?_ Did You do that too? Bet it’s like fuckin’ goddamned daytime television for You, huh?”

His love for Aziraphale has always been something so carefully hidden — can’t let Hell see, can’t let the angel see, can’t let anyone see. But She sees everything. “Another part of my punishment, then? Make the demon weak for the one thing he’ll never have?” There would be tears in his voice if he weren’t so angry; he’s always wanted to ask Her, always wanted to know. 

She says nothing. Her eyes - both visible now - have widened. Is She surprised? Fucking _good._

Crowley scrubs his hands over his face, through his hair. “Fuck. Heaven can sit on a post and spin, Your Goddamned Grace. I’ve never been happier to have left.”

“You chose to leave,” She says suddenly. Her voice is as soft and lovely and overwhelming as he remembers.

“Damn right I did,” he growls. “ _Damned_ right I did. _Fuck_ that.”

“That’s why,” She replies. Her hand reaches out, but falls short of touching him; Crowley restrains the violent urge to take a step back. He isn’t going to let Her get to him. “You always want to know why, My child, and that’s why.”

“Why _what.”_ Crowley realizes he sounds incredibly sulky. He crosses his arms for better effect. “And don’t call me that.”

“You made the choice,” She tells him. “You, out of all the others. That’s what made you the Serpent. You _chose._ It was _incandescent.”_

How does Her voice still have so much love in it? Crowley fucking hates Her at the moment, so strong he hopes She can feel it. 

“And then I watched you crawl out of Hell and you were — different. All My other children, they Fell and burned with it, and became dark things. You, My Serpent… you emerged from those depths and remade yourself.”

“So I’m stubborn.” Crowley definitely isn’t still on the verge of tears. No, this is anger in his throat. Definitely. “What’s it matter.”

“You took in all that darkness,” She says, and Her voice is ...full of wonder? And awe? “And you became something good, all over again.”

“Don’t sssay that,” Crowley snaps. He isn’t good; he isn’t nice. “Don’t You _dare_ say that. I’m a _demon,_ I am _Fallen,_ I am _unforgivable,_ you sure as _fuck_ made sure of that.”

The look She gives him makes it clear what She thinks of that statement. Crowley wildly wonders whether She has ever rolled Her eyes. 

“Would you be an angel again?”

Crowley recoils physically, hissing. “Blasted - Blessed - _No!”_

She finally blinks, long lashes the colors of Her dark-jeweled butterflies dipping and rising slowly. 

“Enough on that.” Crowley finds himself pacing, stalking past Her and then turning back. “Let’sss talk about Armageddon, shall we? The bloody Apocalypse? Was that really Your idea?”

She shrugs. God fucking _shrugs_ at him. “It was one,” She replies, mysteriously. “One of a few.”

“Real fair to Adam,” Crowley snaps. “And what about Warlock? And what about the rest of billions of people on this planet?”

For a second, She looks taken aback, but then the butterflies flutter in to cover Her mouth again. She says nothing.

“Bloody hell,” Crowley tells Her. “All of this. You were going to let them destroy _all of this._ Let Heaven and Hell - two worthless organizations, let me _just say_ \- use this as the field for their sports match?”

“Well,” She says, tilting Her head again. Crowley can see Her other eye and the side of Her nose. “It was a plan. And it kept them off of Earth quite capably, didn’t it?”

Crowley makes a noise like a pot boiling over with water — into a pool of Hellfire. 

“You are not bloody serious,” he says finally. “Jesus _wept.”_

“And He did,” She says mysteriously. 

“Fuck you,” Crowley says with a snort. He’s pacing again, trying to wrap his head around — “You came up with a plan to _destroy the world_ to - to what - to keep angels and demons _off of it?”_

She raises Her hand, cupped; in the middle sits a single butterfly, wings all shades of red, from bursting wine through sunset copper. “I hold more plans in My hand than you in all your eternity could ever imagine, Crowley,” She tells him, intoning it like a bell. 

Crowley turns away. “And that’s your fucking _problem._ Your Almightyness.” His throat is tight. She’s always been so far above everything She’s made. “If You don’t understand why we want to _know,_ why we want _answers,_ then You don’t understand humanity at all.” He sighs. “Which is pathetic, cause they’re the greatest thing You’ve ever done.”

“Free will does not come with unlimited knowledge,” She says. “For if you could see the way everything turned out, if you had all the answers… wouldn’t the choice be clear? The path obvious?”

“I hate this conversation,” Crowley tells Her over his shoulder, and She laughs. It’s all sunlight and waterfalls and it’s beautiful but Crowley would rather have Aziraphale’s laugh, which is ridiculous and mostly-human and _real._ “What are you here for anyway?”

She waits, long enough that he has to turn around again and gesture impatiently at Her. Crowley wonders at his own insolence, but then again — he doubts he’s important enough for Her to smite Herself when any archangel could do it, and it’s not like he can Fall a second time. 

“You have changed,” She says finally, “but those who Fell already changed once. You, however, have also changed an angel — and they are meant to be unchangeable.”

“You don’t get to talk about him,” Crowley _hisses,_ lit up with rage. “Your archangels tried to _burn him.”_

“He needs you,” She says simply. 

God - huh, pun unintended - She still knows how to punch him in the gut, doesn’t She. He tries to laugh and ends up making some kind of noise like a goose. “He has never needed me,” Crowley says, very plainly, and very plainly done.

He stares at Her, fairly sure his face is saying all kinds of things he doesn’t want to be saying to Her, fuck that nonsense, but — he can’t keep them off. And maybe She should see them, anyway; if She’s going to play these games, She should see what She’s really betting with.

“My angels,” She says. “Made in Mine own image. And you made him better!” 

She laughs again, and as She does, the butterflies swarm around Her face. For a second, Crowley gets a glimpse of Her, but strangely enough She just looks faintly like the drawing of Agnes Nutter that was in that old prophecy book.

“Goodbye, My incandescent snake.”

She’s gone, and Crowley is touching his cheek, where it feels like She kissed him before She vanished.

“Fuck this,” Crowley announces.

His keys are in his pocket before he’s even grabbed his jacket, and the door locks behind him as Crowley leaps down seven flights of stairs in one step.

He needs to see Aziraphale.

———

_Interesting._

Her table of Texas Hold ‘Em has paused, as two of Her players are arguing over the chop-pot; She blinks, and everything is resolved, the gentlemen shaking hands as if nothing ever happened. She blinks again, and they’ve moved on to another table, where they will be less of a pain in Her eye.

She glances down. One card left in Her hand. Strange she never thought about the other players. She flips a card from Her sleeve and tucks it behind The Angel, which is waiting to be played. This one is more delicate, and perhaps more risky, but. She makes Her own rules, doesn’t She?

It doesn’t even take sleight of hand to slip The Angel onto the board as the fourth street.


End file.
